


Scion of Kings

by actuallyfeanor



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon Compliant, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:48:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27592957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor/pseuds/actuallyfeanor
Summary: Curufin is Gil-galad
Comments: 1
Kudos: 40





	Scion of Kings

**Author's Note:**

> [Context](https://actuallyfeanor.tumblr.com/post/190013794057/shitty-tolkien-aus-shitty-tolkien-aus-the)

Maedhros abdicates, and Curufin is so damn pissed. But he holds his tongue, bides his time, thinks of ways to get back the birthright he lost. Then the Nirnaeth happens, and the Second Kinslaying, and somehow, against all odds, he manages to crawl out of the bloodshed in Menegroth, more or less alive.

The creature who shows up at the Havens a few weeks later is barely recognisable as an elf. A tangle of matted dark hair, gaunt face, eyes that have seen too much horror.

When brought before Círdan, his words are barely coherent. Something about Nargothrond and Orodreth, something about Dior, something about the High King of the Noldor. They ask his name, and all he can say is _I am the son of the king_.

They give him shelter, food and clean clothes, and when he steps out amongst the people, many remark upon his kingly bearing, the light that shines in his eyes, the way his voice can silence a crowd.

Rumours circulate about his true identity. They ask him about Nargothrond, and he replies as someone who has lived there. They ask about Fingon, and he answers as one who knew the late High King like a brother. They ask his name again, and he gives them one: Artanáro - High Flame. Yet the nickname from those first, confused moments has already stuck to him. Ereinion, Scion of Kings.

News arrive, that Gondolin has fallen, that Turgon is dead, that a new High King must be chosen. And what started as a rumour, almost a jest, springs into reality. Artanáro is crowned king by popular demand.

He proves himself to be a competent leader, deftly navigating diplomacy and war alike. His rule brings peace and prosperity to the Eldar for an entire Age. And when his life is snuffed out, under the shadows of Mordor, the minstrels sing songs of his deeds for ages to come.

There are some who know. Elrond, raised by Maedhros and Maglor Fëanorion, for instance. The Lord of Eregion knows very well who sits on the throne. Few things escape the perceptive eyes of Galadriel. But they hold their tongues, content to rule their own cities and realms. And secretly they all share the same thought: Better him than me.


End file.
